Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“Oh,” she repeated, this time in a different tone.

“I could do good work here, too.”

“I believe that.”

They smiled at each other, and then she walked into his embrace as he curved his right arm around her waist and drew her to him. She looped her arms around his waist. He whispered into her hair, “I’m not hurt that bad. Hug me tight.”

She did, whispering back, “I just want to feel you, smell you, make sure you’re here.” There was a catch in her voice when she continued. “I’ve only known you for a few days. But when you jumped through that window, my heart stopped. You can’t imagine-”

“I don’t have to imagine. I know. I felt the same way when I realized that I’d sent you straight to the culprit who’d tried to kill you once already. If something had happened to you, I’d just as soon those feds shot me.” He tipped her head up and touched her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Has it really only been a few days?”

“Impossible as that seems.”

All the emotions they had experienced that day were unleashed when they kissed. It was deep and lasted forever. When they finally pulled apart, they were feverish with longing and reminded of the night before. He cleared his throat. “Britt, last night-”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“We shouldn’t have.”

“Especially after I’d made such a big deal of it the first time.”

“You were being conscientious.”

“I was being a jerk.”

“Sort of a jerk,” she said with a soft smile. “But last night was different. It just felt right.”

“It felt bloody great.”

“So you’re not…You don’t regret it?”

“God no,” he said huskily.

He had woken up with them spooned together, and for a time her nearness was enough. But then the sweet pressure of her bottom fit snugly against him, and the softness of her breast beneath his hand, had caused the predictable reaction.

His arousal woke her. She stirred. Lifting his hand to her mouth, she kissed his palm, gently sucked his fingertips, then lowered them to her nipples. With feather-light strokes he brought them erect, making her catch her breath. She rubbed against him in silent invitation.

He was hard and heavy, stretched to bursting. He intended to caress her with just the tip. But when he touched her, she was receptive and warm and very wet. He pushed himself into her, she enveloped him in her heat, and for a mindless, endless time, they mated with the merest of movements, rocking against each other in motions as fluid as a calm surf.

He withdrew only long enough to turn her onto her back before sinking into her again, then pressing himself deeper still. He barely had to move, he didn’t want to, because she sheathed him so tightly, so completely, the pulsing of their bodies, his inside hers, brought her to orgasm. He held her hips tightly between his hands and felt each sweet contraction.

Being unprotected, he knew he should pull out, but his willpower to do so abandoned him to his pleasure. And not only to the pleasure, but to his need to meld with her in this most elemental way. She tilted her hips up as though reaching for more, her hands on his back were restless and urgent, and understanding what those entreaties implied, he came inside her. And came. And came.

When it was over, he slid his tongue into her mouth and they kissed, sexily and meaningfully in equal measure. For a long time they made love just by kissing. Until sleepiness overcame them again. They resumed their original position, he hugging her close, nuzzling her nape, tasting the fragrant skin beneath her hair, until they drifted back to sleep.

Neither had spoken a word, but it had been an intensely sexual and intimate experience, ripe with promise, implicative of a future. Words hadn’t been necessary. And they weren’t now.

Taking her hand, he led her into the bedroom.

The fire in this novel is purely fictitious. In order to tell my story, I took creative license and invented a police station and the blaze that destroyed it.

I was well into writing this book when the deadly fire at the Sofa Super Store in Charleston occurred on June 18, 2007. It was an unsettling coincidence. For months, I considered changing the location of my story, fearing that it would appear insensitive to set it in a city that had withstood such a catastrophic loss.

But I changed my mind. That fire prompted reviews by numerous state and federal agencies, resulting in stricter safety measures and more effective fire-fighting procedures, which since have been adapted by fire departments all over the country. Hopefully this positive outcome will prevent another such devastating loss to a community, and to the individuals whose loss was much more personal.

Sandra Brown

The Charleston Police Department moved into its present headquarters in 1974. I became acquainted with that facility when I wrote The Alibi. Prior to its relocation, the department had occupied a venerable stone building at the corner of St. Philip and Vanderhorst streets in the historic district. Within a year of being vacated, that building was demolished. I appreciate the help of Amie Gray of my staff, along with Jan Hiester and The Charleston Museum, for providing me with information and photos.

Special thanks, too, to the three citizens of Yemassee, South Carolina, who on a quiet Sunday morning directed my husband, Michael, and me to the Combahee River, which wasn’t where it was supposed to be according to our map of the back roads. Once we assured these gentlemen that we weren’t property developers, they were friendly, hospitable, and most generous with their assistance.

When lost, I’ve often “…depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Sandra Brown is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers, including Play Dirty, Ricochet, Chill Factor, White Hot, The Crush, Envy, and The Switch. She lives with her husband in Arlington, Texas.